Midnight Confession in a Morgue
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock confronts Molly about his brother's observations concerning their relationship. Sherlolly.


The morgue at St. Bart's hospital was quiet as the grave this evening in early spring, which seemed, of course, appropriate. Dr. Molly Hooper was seated at one of the lab tables, making a few last minute notes in a manilla file folder, yawning with fatigue as she finished her late shift, which was due to end at midnight, and prepared to make her way home to a hot bath and a cold bed. She was in the middle of an rather unattractively pronounced yawn, when the door flew open and the world's only consulting detective made his dramatic entrance, curls askew and coat fluttering.

"Dr. Hooper, I'm glad I caught you…"

"Caught me, Sherlock? You know my schedule better than I do," Molly said with a deep sigh. "What do you need? Fingers? Toes? A liver? Possibly a heart?" Molly put special emphasis on the last organ.

"Molly, I have a question…"

"Sherlock, it's late. I'm really exhausted. I was just about to go home and climb into bed. What can possibly be so important that you couldn't wait until tomorrow? Or just text me?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be gathering his thoughts, and hadn't completely done so, when the pathologist continued. "Besides, wasn't this your evening with Mycroft? One of your all important 'conference sessions', which you have every couple of weeks?" Molly knew full well that these "conferences" involved sipping Scotch and playing Cluedo, or, worse yet, Operation. "Who couldn't successfully remove the heart this time? You Holmes men certainly do have trouble with that particular organ, don't you?" Molly spoke with a sarcastic smirk, and Sherlock made a stuttering motion with his mouth. Nothing came out, as if he would have liked to argue the point, but couldn't come up with a single logical point refuting her statement. Molly giggled a bit, and went back to her work.

"Molly, as a matter of fact, my question concerns something my brother told me this evening, something about which I require clarification."

"Sherlock, I'm not sure how little old goldfish me," Molly made a snarky reference to the term Mycroft Holmes had used on occasion to refer to lesser mortals than he and his brother, "could possibly serve to clarify anything for two such advanced intellects!"

"Molly, as it turns out, you are just about the only one who could do just that."

The small woman put down her pen and closed the file folder, her final task of the evening finally completed. "Alright, Sherlock, you have my full attention. What can I clarify for you, and Mycroft."

"It's not my brother who seeks elucidation on this subject, as he is entirely convinced that his conclusions are entirely correct. I, on the other hand, am not convinced that his observations are not…"

"Sherlock, it's getting late!" The pathologist almost shouted, suppressing yet another yawn. "For god's sake, spit it out!"

"Mycroft has informed me that you are in love with me," the detective said quietly, studying her face for any tell-tale micro-expressions.

A blush was starting to rise up the pathologist's neck. She could feel heat suffusing her ears, and was eternally thankful that she had chosen to wear her hair down today. She slid off the lab stool, bringing herself up to her full height, and, looking directly into his lovely blue-green eyes, said firmly, and with authority, "Well, Mr. Detective, Mycroft always was the smarter brother."

Sherlock Holmes was now shifting from foot to foot, evidently taken aback by her answer. He ran his hand through his curls, becoming more and more uncomfortable as the woman stood her ground, looking to him for some response. A response he found he couldn't supply.

"Sherlock really? How could you not know? Everyone knows! I have spent almost seven years being the object of their concern, sometimes pity, which is rather unbearable, by the way. I helped you die when you asked me to, and let you stay at my place. I tried to forget you by becoming engaged to your goddamn clone!"

"Is that why you dumped him?"

"Well, he may have looked like you, but without your charming personality and obnoxiously brilliant mind, it was a no-go. It should have been a non-starter, but he did look at lot like you, after all…"

"And you were having a lot of sex, you said…"

"Not that much, you git. I exaggerated for effect. But, it seemingly had no effect! At least, not on you. Mary did ask a lot of overly personal questions after that! And the reality of Tom…" When Sherlock looked a bit puzzled at the mention of the name, Molly continued, "Meatdagger, Sherlock! Meatdagger! Anyway, as I was saying, the reality of Meatdagger, never lived up to the fantasy of Sherlock, so…"

"Fantasy, Molly?" Sherlock's blush was now almost a match to his pathologist.

"That's the only thing you got from that, you git? Fantasizing about you? You really are the most arrogant, egotistical…"

"Who you, evidently, are in love with!"

"Well, people always say that there's no accounting for taste! But how could you not know when it was so painfully obvious, emphasis on painfully, to everyone else?"

"Everyone, Molly? I think you exaggerate."

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and says 'tsk tsk' whenever I show up at Baker Street. She refers to me as a 'poor dear'! At times, John will hug me for no reason at all. Greg…"

"Who?"

"Lestrade, you arse, has offered to help mend my broken heart, or at least distract me. And Mary has offered to shoot you…" Molly couldn't understand why the detective winced at these words. Perhaps she would have to question him later, if this conversation had not already permanently damaged their relationship. "Anyway, how could you not know? I always thought you were just being considerate by not broaching the subject. I never minded when you flirted outrageously to get what you wanted. I enjoyed it! In fact, I rather miss it…"

"Molly, I thought it was just a crush, a harmless infatuation. Had I known your feelings, I certainly wouldn't have taken such advantage…"

"No, you probably would have run for the hills…"

"Not necessarily…"

"And it highly unlikely that you would have crawled into bed with me on all those nights you used my flat as a bolthole…"

"Dr. Hooper, I consider this whole affair to be your fault!"

"My fault?!"

"Yes, your fault! Entirely! Imagine my embarrassment at having to be told by my condescending elder brother that the woman he believed me to be in love with for ages returns my feeling in kind, and I have been too stupid to recognize the fact…"

"How did Mycroft arrive at that conclusion, Sherlock?"

"As you pointed out, Molly, he is the smarter brother. I suppose I should be grateful for his interference, but I find it hard to forgive him for waiting so long…"

"Sherlock Holmes, are you saying…"

"Yes, Dr. Hooper, do keep up!" Sherlock smiled at her with affection, and with something just a bit more arousing than affection. "Now, finish up! It's time we got out of this place. You need to be home and in bed at this hour of the night..."

Molly Hooper quickly dumped the file on her desk, to be dealt with during her next shift, and gathered her things as the detective paced her lab impatiently.

"Sherlock, I'm not at all tired anymore…"

He wrapped his arms around her as she attempted to get into her coat. "That's very fortunate, Dr. Hooper, because I don't recall mentioning anything about sleeping," the detective said before pulling the petite woman, coat half-on and half-off, into his arms for the first kiss ever to land precisely where he had wanted all his previous kisses to land, and that was definitely not on the cheek.


End file.
